All my life, my only ambition as a farmer was to raise a son who would amount to something.

I never imagined that at the gala celebrating his company's public listing, my presence would be his greatest shame.

When the guests asked who I was, panic flashed in my son's eyes. His composure cracked. He stammered.

"This is… Mr. Lambert. A sanitation worker from my hometown. He watched me grow up. I'm… very grateful to him."

Applause rippled through the crowd. They praised his humility—a CEO who remembered the little people.

But the relatives my son had hired—those leeches he'd brought into the company—looked at me with undisguised mockery.

"Old Lambert really is something," one whispered loud enough for me to hear. "Showing up at a time like this? Is he trying to humiliate Joshua?"

"A dirt-poor farmer should stay in the mud where he belongs," another sneered.

My son couldn't get away from me fast enough.

Standing there in the glitter of the banquet hall, a cold realization settled into my gut. I had raised this boy. Poured my life into him.

And it felt like I had done it all for nothing.

——

I left the celebration early and found the cheapest guesthouse near the railway station.

Twenty bucks a night. The sheets reeked of mildew and stale smoke.

The hard mattress dug into my spine as I stared at the water-stained ceiling. The scene at the banquet played on a loop—a torture I couldn't switch off.

Images of my son flickered through my mind. The toddler who recited poetry at three. The five-year-old who insisted on carrying the foot-washing basin for his mother.

Now, those memories were overlaid by the cold, indifferent figure in the tailored suit.

He never gave me trouble in school. Our mud-brick walls were plastered with his academic certificates. To pay his tuition, I sold every grain of harvest I had.

When that wasn't enough, I sold my blood.

When his mother lay dying, she refused treatment. She hoarded every penny so he could finish his degree.

I remember her gripping my hand—her grip weak, but urgent.

*"Asher, our boy is meant for great things. We have to lift him up. Send him out into the world. When he succeeds, we'll finally enjoy some peace."*

She was gone now.

And I had lost him too.

There was no peace.

A crushing weight pressed against my chest, as if a giant hand were squeezing my heart.

I sat up and fished a cold, hard steamed bun from my cloth bag. Took a bite. Washed it down with tap water.

The dry lump stuck in my throat. I couldn't swallow.

My ancient brick of a phone buzzed, the ringtone harsh in the quiet room.

My son's maternal uncle.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the button, before finally answering.

His voice oozed a warmth that had never been there before—forced, awkward.

"Asher! How goes it? You made it to the boy's place? Did you see him? The city's bustling, isn't it?"

Questions fired like a machine gun.

My throat tightened. I managed a noncommittal grunt.

Sensing my mood, he shifted tactics. His tone dropped, earnest now. Lecturing.

"Asher, look, I'm not saying you were wrong, but Joshua just called me. He told me about the… situation at the party."

A loud sigh crackled through the speaker.

"You have to understand. It was a massive occasion. Why did you just run over there without a heads-up? Joshua is a CEO now. He manages a huge corporation. Image is everything! You showing up like that… weren't you just making trouble for him?"

A spark of anger ignited in the ashes of my grief.

A father wanting to see his son was *making trouble*?

I stayed silent. Taking my silence for guilt, my uncle pressed harder.

"I know you miss him. I know you want to bask in his glory. But you need to know your place!"

"Look how good things are. Joshua is sensible. He repays kindness. He remembers us poor relatives. Just last month, he made your niece a manager. Do you know what her salary is?"

He quoted a figure, his voice trembling with greed and pride.

"As elders, we need to be considerate. Don't drag him down. If he says you're a sanitation worker, then you're a sanitation worker!"

"Think about it. Standing there in those clothes… if you don't look like a janitor, what do you look like?"

"Listen to your big brother. Don't take it to heart. Buy a ticket and go back to the village. The yellow earth is our root, Asher. Stick to it."

"Kindness?"

I cut him off, my voice a ragged rasp that startled even me.

"You want to talk to me about kindness?"

"When Joshua was ten, he burned with a fever so high he was delirious. I came to your door in the dead of night, begging to borrow fifty bucks to save his life. What did you say?"

My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white.

"You said a half-grown boy eats his father out of house and home. You said if the fever burned his brain out, it would be a blessing—one less mouth to feed!"

"When his mother was dying, she wanted a decent coffin. I begged you again. You threw a sack of old corn at me and told me to take it as charity. That corn was riddled with weevils!"

The rage I'd suppressed for years erupted, shaking my entire frame.

"Now that my son is somebody, you remember kindness? Your 'kindness' was handing down rags at New Year and grain that pigs wouldn't eat!"

"You cling to him like leeches, sucking his blood, and you think you haven't taken enough? Me? Drag him down?"

My voice cracked.

"I, Asher Lambert, haven't taken a single cent of his money! When I was selling my own blood to keep him in school, where the hell were you?"

Dead silence on the line. I could hear his heavy, furious breathing.

I didn't wait for a retort. I slammed the hang-up button with everything I had.

I slumped against the bedframe, staring out the window at the gray, smog-choked city sky.

Tears carved tracks through the grime on my face.

To them, my decades of back-breaking labor meant nothing compared to the scraps they could beg from my son.

My identity as a father was a stain on his résumé. A sanitation worker was a convenient lie to cover the ugly truth of his origin.

I lay in that guesthouse for two days.

Catatonic.

The hope in my heart sizzled out like charcoal thrown into snow. Only a thin wisp of smoke remained.

But I wasn't ready to accept it. Not yet.

If I went back now, in disgrace, how could I face his mother in the afterlife? I told myself my son was just confused. Cornered by the situation. A momentary lapse.

A father shouldn't hold a grudge against his child.

*Does he think I embarrass him? Fine.*

*Then I won't be his father.*

I thought about his massive office building. They needed security, didn't they?

I was old, but I was sturdy. I could guard a door.

I didn't want his money. Just a meal and a place to stand.

I just wanted… to see him. To know he was safe.

The thought took root like weeds after rain.

I gathered my shattered dignity, put on my best tunic suit—the Zhongshan style I'd saved for special occasions—and walked back to the imposing glass tower.

No cloth bag this time. Empty hands. I forced my hunched back as straight as it would go.

The young security guard was still at the entrance. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by a frown.

"You again?"

I forced a humble smile.

"Comrade, I'm not looking for Mr. Lambert today. I… I'm here to apply for a job. Is the company hiring security? Do you think I could do it?"

He looked at me like I'd told a joke. A snort escaped him.

"Apply? Old man, are you serious? Even our guards need a high school diploma and a physical. Look at you. How old are you?"

He waved his hand like he was shooing a fly.

"Get lost. You're blocking the way."

Heat rushed to my face, but I held my ground.

"I haven't studied much, but I have strength. I'm serious. Look—"

"No! Leave!"

Just as I stood there, paralyzed by shame, the revolving doors spun.

Two figures emerged.

My son. And his cousin—my eldest niece—dressed in flashy, expensive clothes.

They were laughing, heading out for lunch.

My niece had sharp eyes. She spotted me instantly and let out a theatrical shriek.

"Oh my god! Who is this? Isn't it the sanitation-worker grandpa from the village?"

Her smirk widened, voice shrill enough to turn heads.

"What's the matter? Didn't you get enough handouts at the party? Did you come to the front door to mooch some more?"

Poisoned darts, every word. People entering and exiting the building slowed to watch.

My son's face darkened. He looked even angrier than he had the night of the banquet.

He stormed over. Disgust radiated from him in waves.

But he didn't speak to me.

Instead, he turned his fury on the security guard.

"What is wrong with you? What do I pay you for? How can you let random vagrants block the entrance? Do we care about the company image or not? Get him out of here! Now!"

Only then did he turn to me.

His eyes were shards of ice.

"Sir," he said, the word dripping with distance. "I am very grateful for the care you and the villagers showed me in the past."

"However, this company has standards. Even a security position requires professional skills and education you do not possess. You don't meet our requirements."

His jaw tightened.

"Please understand and do not come here again. You are affecting our business."

*Sir.*

He called me *Sir*.

*Affecting our business.*

My heart plunged into a frozen lake. I couldn't even shiver.

My niece stood beside him, arms crossed, sneering. She happily poured gasoline on the fire.

"Exactly. Joshua is on a different level now. You clinging to him like this is shameless. If people find out, how bad will that look? Strangers might think the Lambert family treated you poorly! Have some dignity, will you?"

I looked at my son's indifferent face.

That familiar, twisting pain in my chest returned.

But this time, it was violent.

A sledgehammer to the ribs.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to collapse in front of them.

Summoning the last dregs of my strength, I raised my head and looked my son in the eye.

In that look, I poured a lifetime of bitterness.

Confusion.

Love.

And finally… total, despairing resignation.

I didn't say a word.

I didn't look at anyone else.

I turned around silently and began the long walk back the way I came.

Behind me, the glass skyscraper loomed like a massive, cold tombstone.

It buried my hope.

It buried my son.

I don't remember how I made it back to the guesthouse.

I collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air, skin slick with cold sweat. The world tilted and went black.

The terrified guesthouse owner called an ambulance.

When I drifted back to consciousness, I was in a hospital bed. An IV drip stuck in my hand. Oxygen tubes threaded into my nose.

A young nurse was checking my blood pressure. Seeing my eyes flutter open, she spoke softly.

"Sir, you're awake? It was acute angina. A heart attack. You're lucky they brought you in when they did. Don't move. Rest."

I tried to speak, but my throat was sandpaper.

That afternoon, the ward door swung open.

My son walked in, his secretary trailing behind him.

Still impeccably dressed, though he looked slightly haggard. He placed a generic fruit basket on the bedside cabinet—the kind you buy for a stranger.

He stood by the bed, looking down at me. His expression was complicated.

But devoid of love.

After a long, suffocating silence, he finally spoke. The icy corporate tone was gone, replaced by the whine of a victim.

"Dad… I told you. I told you so many times not to come."

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

"You insisted on causing a scene. Now look at you. Lying in a hospital, letting everyone laugh at us."

His voice sharpened.

"Are you satisfied now?"

I closed my eyes.

I couldn't bear to look at him.